


JFGOGH stories

by Cassiopeia_kass444



Category: Clone High
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-27 11:40:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30122193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassiopeia_kass444/pseuds/Cassiopeia_kass444
Summary: I apologize in advance for my fucking English, but I'm still glad you'll understand something. There will be just unrelated stories about JFK and Vincent, everything that comes to my mind. Enjoy your reading!
Relationships: JFK/Vincent Van Gogh (Clone High)
Kudos: 1





	JFGOGH stories

**Author's Note:**

> Don't repeat Vinnie's mistakes, it really sucks.  
> *Tschüss - good bye

Vincent left in the morning, having previously left a note on the refrigerator for his adoptive mother with something like this:  
"Left to Gauguin, I'll be back late. If you need something, write.  
Winnie  
Tschüss!* "  
Gog hated being called, so everyone close to him knew without reminders that the best way to contact him was via SMS or a message on WhatsApp.  
The guy walked confidently along the sidewalk, a dirty brown leather bag with gold buttons dangling on his right shoulder. It contained nothing but a thin sketchbook and a purse. He intended to go to the store to grab some puffed rice and an energy drink.  
"One jar won't do anything wrong, right? .."  
Previously, this was not a problem. Often Vince did not notice how time flew by at night and without any fears he drank this chemical rubbish, trying to somehow restore his body.  
Everything changed when Kennedy appeared in his life. John. As you like, but it appeared!  
It all started like in a silly teenage series: sketchbooks scattered on the floor of the corridor, an athlete guy helping to put it all together, hands accidentally touching at that moment ... And that's it, it started!  
After what seemed like a thousand sleepless nights, small attempts at communication, they were finally able to make friends.  
Now Vincent is at the checkout and smiles stupidly. At least friendship ... He could not dream of more! Yes, and this more is not needed, he will not stand ... The boy shook his head, which made his red hair disheveled even more, paid for the purchases and left.  
Recently John noticed that his new friend is clearly ... Let's just say, not in the best condition. They discussed this for a long time, while the artist himself silently sobbed and swallowed tears. It was Kennedy who persuaded him to finally see a therapist. As dumb-headed himbo as this guy was, his fathers clearly managed to raise a good person in him. Of course, it was difficult to see it behind the macho shell.  
In the pocket of Vincent's wide jeans was a package of Paroxetine. At first, he was really upset by the fact that in order to feel normal and alive, he had to take idiotic pills. However, now these thoughts have faded into the background. Better to depend on pills than light in the room at two in the morning.  
The artist finally approached Gauguin's house. They were not friends, no, rather just acquaintances who enjoyed spending time together. For today they planned to watch a couple of films and, possibly, go to the open air in the late afternoon ...  
***  
The clock in JFK's room already shows 4:50 pm, but today he hasn't received a single message from Vince. For the third time in 20 minutes, he checked whether there was an SMS from the subscriber "Sunflower", but nothing changed.  
-Something is, um, wrong ...  
He muttered under his breath, munching on an apple slice. Wally was very concerned about what his son was eating, so he often appears in the room.  
Specifically, Kennedy still hasn't been able to come to terms with the feelings raging in his chest over the past few weeks. He, the most desirable boyfriend of every girl in school, fell in love with a little red-haired, depressed artist. God, it even sounds ridiculous! Despite this, he woke up and fell asleep every day thinking about Vincent. He thought about him both at breakfast and in class, his only break was at the gym. Then he thought about how to quietly watch Van Gogh, trying to warm up as best as possible. Okay, John F. Kennedy really fell in love, but it was even pleasant.  
***  
-Well Winnie the Pooh, I think we can try something ...  
Gauguin smiled slyly, reaching into the wine cabinet with his hand. He fished a bottle of clear liquid out of him, put it on the table and straightened his black hair.  
-OU...  
An accidental sound itself escaped from the chest of the red-haired artist.  
\- I don't think that's a good idea, Paul ...  
The boy, out of excitement, crumpled the edge of his chintz shirt in his hands, praying to all the gods that his "colleague" just joked so unsuccessfully. He remembered that the doctor had advised against drinking alcohol with antidepressants, but clearly did not know what might happen after that.  
\- Come on, Vince!  
Paul laughs and pours the drink into the stacks he just fished out of the top drawer.  
-You will not be bent from a couple of glasses. I will say more ...  
He handed Gog a small vessel and a piece of lime.  
-You will obviously become calmer after her than after these sedatives.  
At first, Vincent squints in disbelief at his friend, but soon grabs a glass and drinks in one gulp.  
***  
"Damn, why isn't he writing ?!"  
John, accustomed to receiving hundreds of messages from the artist per day, wanders around the living room, every minute updating each correspondence.  
-Baby, is something wrong?  
Wally walks into the room and sits in an armchair with a cup of tea.  
-What's wrong?  
JFK stops and looks carefully into his father's eyes. Perhaps he should tell someone about his experiences ...  
-Baby?  
-Yes, dad, there is, uh, problem ...  
He sits down on the sofa, resting his elbows on his hips.  
-Then you can tell your dad about it!  
Wally smiles amiably.  
The clock is 6:47 pm.  
Blood pounds in the temples ...  
-In short ...  
***  
The bottle has already ended, and Gauguin is completely sober. So Vincent continues to drink too. He's not a fucking wimp, after all!  
\- So, so ... You ... So ... What the fuck is called?  
The language doesn't listen to him, damn it! So pathetic!  
-It is called an atheist, Gog, God, how drunk you are!  
The red-haired man throws up his hand and, looking straight into Paul's eyes, laughs wildly.  
-Atheist! You just said "God"! You're not a fucking atheist!  
He sat down in his chair and closes his eyes. There are voices in his head. He drowns them out with stupid conversations, but they are not going to retreat.  
It is already getting dark outside the window, they never went to the open air. They're doing bullshit instead.  
-It's an expression, idiot.  
-You are an idiot yourself!  
Vincent shouted that and sank again.  
-Maybe. Why are we all talking about me? Do you have some new?  
Paul sits on the edge of the table and lights a cigarette. Gray rings of smoke rise to the snow-white ceiling, breaking against it. Vincent sees this because his head is thrown back. He threw it back so as not to burst into tears. How bad he is ...  
-You know ...  
Then he switches to a whisper.  
-I think I'm in love ...  
Gauguin raises an eyebrow in surprise, looking towards his comrade.  
-And who is she?  
-John Fitzgerald Kennedy.  
***  
\- But where is it...  
JFK flips through the phone book nervously. After talking with his father, he decided that it would be nice to call the mother of "that same boy". Perhaps she knows a lot more. Maybe you shouldn't worry ...  
-Here it is!  
The guy screamed and immediately began to dial the number. He put the receiver to his ear, an unpleasant, but so important now beep came from it. Soon the call was not answered.  
-Hello?  
A pleasant female voice was heard on the other side.  
-Hello, uh, Mrs. H, this is John, John Kennedy. Vincent's friend.  
-Oh yes, hello dear. Something happened?  
The young man frowned, wondering how to explain what was happening. The phrase "my boyfriend doesn't text me all day and I'm damn worried" seemed strange and he even blushed a little. He's not his boyfriend at all ...  
-Hello?  
\- Oh yeah, yeah ... I'd like to ask where Vince is. Just...  
Damn, he was lying!  
\- I just wanted to talk to him about the project ...  
-Ah, John, Winnie went to one of his friends in the morning. I think you can meet tomorrow when he is at home.  
-Oh, good. Yes. Thanks a lot, good bye...  
He carefully placed the receiver on the receiver. So everything should be fine ... Really, Jack, what are you, an idiot? The world and ginger artists don't revolve around you, moron!  
***  
Apathy. Fear. Lack of light. Hysterics. Panic.  
Vincent pressed his knees to his chest and sobbed quietly, while in the next room Gauguin was having fun with a girl who came to him about an hour ago. How bad he is, how he wants it all to stop.  
The boy rises from the floor and wipes his face with the sleeve of his jacket, which he borrowed from Paul when he realized that he was freezing.  
"Vincent ..."  
That voice again. The artist does not understand whether it belongs to a woman or a man, but that does not matter.  
"You are just nothing ... You cannot compare with Him ..."  
Oh, he knows it himself. Yes, he cannot be compared, because ... Who is he? He's a stupid teenager, a stupid and depressed teenager who got drunk as a lord when he couldn't ...  
-I can't be like him ...  
Gog looks down at shaking hands.  
-If only...  
A terrible thought comes to his mind.  
Somehow he gets to the bathroom, turns on the cold light in it, locks the door.  
-Where can they be?  
He whispers this and opens the cabinet behind the mirror.  
-Where are they ...  
He stumbles upon a razor after a minute of searching. Drops it to the floor, causing the blades to fly across the floor. He takes one. Hands are shaking, but this is the only way out.  
The locker is closed. A weak, little boy is reflected in the mirror. His red hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat. He brings the blade to his ear. The sound of tearing fabric. The earlobe rests in the palm of his hand. Blood pours down his neck in a frenzied stream, staining his clothes.  
But it doesn't hurt him. He looks at himself indifferently, turns around and goes into the room.  
The only thing he wants now is to hear John.  
***  
At 12 am, John's phone begins to buzz strangely on the bedside table. It's good that he is still awake. And how to sleep when the excitement for Vincent has not receded.  
JFK runs across the room in a matter of seconds, even though it seems like an eternity has passed to him. He frantically grabs the phone. "Sunflower" is displayed on the screen. Is Vincent calling him? Something is wrong...  
Kennedy answers.  
-Hello?! Vince?  
Silence. Heard only breathlessness and sobbing. Damn it, this is not "Something Wrong"! It's not like that at all!  
Fear appears in his eyes. He screams dully into the receiver.  
-Vinnie ?! Where are you?!  
The sobs grow louder. Here the artist finally gives a voice.  
-John...  
-Yes, sunflower!  
-John...  
He barely pronounces the name with an anguish in his voice. Sore throat from crying.  
\- Save me, John ...  
-Where are you?! What happened?!  
A quiet sigh.  
-I ... I'm at Gauguin's ... Take me, John ... Please, please!  
He shouts, crying uncontrollably.  
-I'm on my way, Vinnie, please be there!  
Kennedy even forgets to turn off the phone. He rushes out of the room straight into the garage, instantly starts the car and drives out. He doesn’t care about the traffic rules, he’s not up to them at all! There, in a small house near the forest, the one for whom he is ready to give his life is crying.  
***  
John dumps the car right in the middle of the road and gets out of it, running up to the house. He's angry, very angry! What could Paul do with Vincent? With HIS Vincent ?!  
He practically breaks down the door when no one opens him and flies into a dark place. Rustles are heard in the room directly opposite him.  
-Vinnie? It's you?!  
He knocks on the door when Gauguin, wrapped in a sheet, opens for him. He stares blankly at Jack, trying to move away from sleep. Then the huge palms of the athlete fall on his shoulders and shake him as much as possible.  
\- Where is Vincent?! Where is he?!  
-Do not shout, you idiot! He's in the next room, drunk, probably asleep.  
Drunk.  
-How drunk? .. You gave him a drink ?!  
\- Yes, he drank half a bottle! What's the big deal ?!  
Here Gauguin also raised his voice. Jack was already heading towards the next door when he turned around and again rushed towards the unfamiliar artist.  
\- He couldn't drink it himself! He drinks pills and is far from being an idiot!  
He screamed as loudly as he could when he heard the sound of a door opening from behind.  
-John?..  
Kennedy turned his head and sighed in horror. Van Gogh stood on the threshold. Small, fragile and ... Covered in blood. It has already dried on his jacket and neck in uneven lines. He sobbed soundlessly and was barely on his feet when a pair of strong hands grabbed him.  
-You came...  
-What have you done to yourself ?!  
He was put to the chest, trying to stop the trembling in the small body. John screamed ... But not out of anger, but out of excitement. His voice was uneven, frightened.  
-I...  
Vince was about to answer, but then he abruptly covered his mouth with his palms. He felt sick.  
JFK didn't even say goodbye to the other guy, who was now standing next to his awakened girlfriend, ran out into the street with the artist in his arms.  
-So, wait ... Now everything will be fine!  
They barely managed to reach the dumpster.  
***  
They drove in silence. A couple of times they stopped when Gog weakly poked John in the shoulder. Yes, they didn’t speak, but it was so ... Okay? Yes, that would probably be the best word.  
Okay.  
When they finally enter the main road, John finally speaks.  
\- I'll take you home, and tomorrow ... Tomorrow I'll pick you up and take you to the hospital.  
-Not!  
A pair of frightened blue eyes stares at JFK. Vincent even jumped on the seat, which is why he now climbed on top of him.  
-Take me anywhere! To a psychiatric hospital, to a cemetery, to a fucking forest, but not home, for heaven's sake! My mom will kill me, then resurrect me and kill me again!  
Kennedy stares into the artist's face in bewilderment and realizes that he really will not be lucky home.  
-Okay. Let's go to me.  
***  
-Hey! Wait no!  
Van Gogh sits on the side of the bathroom and squeaks from discomfort. John pours hydrogen peroxide over the place where the earlobe used to be. A reddish, bubbling liquid runs down the neck behind the collar of his shirt, and the ear itself is hot.  
\- Be patient, I'm almost, uh, everything.  
JFK is almost calm, so his usual accent is returning. Finally, he takes a bandage in his hands and gently wraps (if you can call it gently) around his friend's head.  
Friend.  
-Well, is it not tight?  
He asks and smiles sweetly. Vincent's heart leaps out of his chest.  
-N-no, everything is perfect ... Thank you ...  
Well, pale cheeks are blushed. Finally, he looks up at his savior. He's so handsome. Strong arms can be seen up to the shoulders, because he is in one T-shirt. Light brown hair in a little mess and this is how it suits him! Oh no, he's smiling again!  
-Yes, not at all! .. Come on, we need to put you to bed.  
\- Wait.  
And Kennedy stops. On wadded feet, Gog comes up to him and takes both hands.  
\- John ... I ... I'd like to tell you something.  
He lowered his gaze again.  
-I understand if you want to hit me, and maybe even kill me, but I can't stand it anymore.  
Small palms were sweating, and tears again welled in my eyes from excitement.  
\- I love you, John. Incredibly strong. And I am grateful to you for everything that you did for me today ... In general, for everything that you have done for me.  
The artist is expecting a blow to the jaw. At least a slap ... But instead he feels warm lips touching the skin of his hands. John kisses the back of his hand and looks deeply into his eyes.  
Vincent blushes violently, opening his mouth.  
-So, you in love, Winnie ...  
The athlete laughs kindly and, damn it, smiles so charmingly! Gog does not even notice how he comes close to him, puts his palms on his shoulders and weightlessly touches Kennedy's lips with his lips. They are soft and so sweet! His eyelashes tremble as he feels a warm hand on the back of his head and the kiss deepens.  
***  
John's room is large and bright. It has a huge panoramic window covered with white tulle. Cold moonlight seeps through a small gap, but Vincent is not cold. It's warm under Kennedy's side, and big hands warm like a huge scarf.  
"Everything's working out too fast ..."  
The artist thinks and snuggles closer to make sure that this is not a dream. He exhales and nuzzles into JFK's wide chest. He smells like shower gel and chlorinated water - he just left the bathroom. Hair in complete disarray lies on the pillow and curls nicely. Vincent raises his hand and runs his fingers into his friend's wet hairdo ... No, now a boyfriend ... Probably.  
-Joe?  
\- Hmm?  
He opens one eye and smiles.  
-We are now ... Well ...  
-What?  
-We are now, like ... Dating or what?  
The muffled laughter of an athlete echoes through the room and Vince's heart stops. Are they really playing with him? .. Tears already have time to appear in his eyes, when his back is suddenly turned over. John smiles kindly.  
\- Vince, haven't you figured it out yet?


End file.
